


Aces High

by themazeballet



Category: Inception (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themazeballet/pseuds/themazeballet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Members of the Dream Share community have been showing up dead. When Miles and a former soldier close to Eames are killed, Eames and Arthur decide to call on the expertise of none other than world-renowned consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aces High

**Author's Note:**

> For livejournal's bigbang_mixup challenge. The mix is entitled 'delicate balance shifted'. See end notes for tracklisting and link to mix.

"He's dead."

Eames looked over the top of his sunglasses at the man standing over him, the man's shadow creating an ombre over Eames's rapidly burning legs. "Well hello to you as well, Arthur." He sat up and grabbed his glass of something criminally alcoholic and took a sip. "Have a seat. No need to be menacing whilst imparting bad news."

Arthur sat down. "It's Miles. He's dead."

There was a small splash as a woman dived into the pool, and Eames was distracted for a moment. Death didn't seem possible on such a gorgeous day, the sun high and bright and a breeze from the sea making everything tolerable, excepting the death of a dear friend.

He frowned. "Isn't that bad luck," Eames murmured softly, his brow creasing. "Any news on how?"

"Shot in the back of the head," Arthur said. "No evidence, obviously." 

Eames handed over his drink. "Not even a clue?"

"Not one," Arthur replied, taking a healthy gulp and grimacing; the alcohol burned something fierce down his throat. "But it's not the first murder in the dream share community. Seems a team out in Taiwan lost three members, and one in Scotland lost its architect."

"Have you called Ariadne?"

"Yep. But Miles…Miles wasn't even a part of the community."

Eames took his glass back and took a sip. "Then he was a message. To us, to Cobb specifically, perhaps?" He looked down at the glass, and then hailed down a passing waiter to get two more. "Cobb hasn't done a dream in some time, has he?"

"He did one about six months after the big one, but that was a favour." Arthur leaned back in his chair, tilting it on its back legs. "And look, the guys in Taiwan and Scotland didn't have anything to do with us."

The waiter came back with their drinks, and Eames deigned to sit up on his deck chair. "So it's the dream share itself that's the target."

"Looks like it," Arthur said quietly, taking a sip of his drink. He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it over to Eames. It was a small white box with a black ribbon wrapped around it. Eames undid the ribbon and pulled the top off the box.

Inside, a bullet lay on a bed of cotton. Eames picked it up, turning it over in his fingers. "Quite a dramatic flourish. Any fingerprints?"

"Well, yours now," Arthur replied, then grinned. "It just showed up in the mail."

"Hmm." Eames put it back in the box and did up the ribbon, handing it back to Arthur, who slipped it back into his pocket. 

"I can only think that it means I'm next," Arthur said. "You can't get more of a threat than that."

"Seems likely," Eames replied, and rubbed the back of his head, sighing. "Also seems we're in a bit of a pickle."

"Acceptable understatement coming from you," Arthur cracked, "especially since it isn't your life in danger."

"Oh but darling, it's _your_ life, and that's just as important," Eames said with a wink. "Look, I'm no Hercule Poirot, and I'd be a rubbish James Bond, but two things: we can't go to the bobbies with this one, and I don't think Saito can get us out of this one, no matter how much of the world he bought up."

"I'm not going to go run and hide because of some amateur threat on my life," Arthur said, taking another gulp of his drink. 

"And that's why you're Arthur bloody Browning," Eames said with a pat on his arm. "Wasn't expecting you to go out without a fight." He finished his drink and looked at his watch. "What say you we have some supper and discuss this like proper gentlemen?"

+++

They sat on Eames's balcony, Eames with a cigarette dangling from his fingers and Arthur sitting with a laptop on his knees, grumbling about the slowness of the wireless connexion and picking up pieces of sashimi with one hand, popping the thin slices of fish into his mouth and barely chewing before swallowing.

"So, do we know the current locations of the former team?" Arthur asked.

"You'd know better than me, mate. Generally, when I go off network it means off network." Eames brought his cigarette to his lips, pulling in a bit of smoke and letting it curl out of his nose slowly. "Yusuf is in Mombasa. He's been nigh on unreachable though—keeps his mobile numbers on rotation and only uses the post, and never puts anything more than Kenya as a forwarding address."

"Smart man. Cobb is somewhere out West. Last call I managed to trace back to Colorado, but he had somehow bounced it off a network tower in Manitoba." Arthur frowned as he picked up his laptop, moving it around to capture a better signal. "You couldn't have stayed in a hotel with better internet?"

"I tend to stick to the basics: does it have a pool, a bar, and a beach nearby?" Eames replied. "Which leads me to my next question: how did you find me?"

Arthur picked up another piece of sashimi, popping it into his mouth. "The header data in your last email." He shrugged. "It was pretty straight forward." He looked at his laptop and laughed. "Ha! Done." He typed something. "I was trying to create a secure network within a network to set up a VOIP call with Ariadne."

"If you had spoken Greek, it would have made just as little sense. Why do you need double security?"

"Because I'm not the only one who does what I do." He set the laptop on the table and clicked his return key. There were three short buzzes, and then Ariadne's face filled the screen.

"Arthur! Eames! Long time, way to keep a girl on her toes." Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she wore little makeup. Eames checked his watch. It was two in the afternoon in Paris.

"We would have gotten in touch sooner darling, but we've heard you've had a bit of a meteoric rise within the architecture ranks of the old dame city," Eames replied. Ariadne's face broke up, and on the next refresh, she was smiling.

"Always the flatterer, Eames. So, what's the news?"

"It's sort of bad."

Ariadne frowned, and nodded. "I heard about Miles. You two are still alive, but what about Cobb, Yusuf and Saito?"

"Cobb is fine, he's underground. Yusuf is keeping safe, and Saito is most likely perfectly okay. We think that whoever it is that's targeting us is targeting the community in general."

"Is there anyway to warn them?" Something crashed behind Ariadne, and she turned. The video lagged, and then cut out, but the audio stayed. "Rasputin!"

The video came back on, and Ariadne had a cat in her arms. "Sorry about that. Anyway to warn them?"

"The problem with the community is that we have to stay pretty far underground. It's the nature of the business."

"Sometimes I forget that everything you do is sort of illegal," Ariadne said, stroking her cat absently. 

"Pretty much everything fun is sort of illegal, m'dear," Eames said, and then, "Cute cat."

Ariadne laughed. "He's a devil." She let him go. "So, what can I do to help?"

"Since you've gone legitimate, not much," Arthur replied. "But keep a lookout. You could still be in danger, maybe even _are_ in danger."

"Will do," Ariadne replied. "And if I can do anything at all, just let me know." She waved at the camera. "Until the next time?" She laughed. "It's been three years, but I feel like a young grad student all over again."

They said their goodbyes and logged off. Arthur shut down his laptop and closed it, drumming his fingers on the lid. 

Eames took a piece of sashimi. "She looks good. Healthy. Bloody gorgeous." Arthur nodded absently. "Were you two…?"

"Not for my lack of trying," Arthur said, and laughed. "Sometimes I feel like I would have had a better chance chasing after you."

Eames quirked an eyebrow. "And who says you don't still?" he teased, getting up and clapping his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I'm going to have a shower. You can have the bed, I'll kip on the sofa tonight."

"Can't let you do that, man. This is your room." Arthur leaned back in the chair. "It's a big enough bed."

Eames looked back at the bed. "True. Fair warning, I'm a bit of a covers hog."

"I snore. We can sleep badly, then."

Eames grinned. "I like the sound of that." 

Arthur pulled the box out of his pocket and opened it once more, looking down at the bullet and sighing. 

+++

Detective Inspector Lestrade had seen many, many crime scenes in his day, and while this one was no different, it made his stomach curl just the same. It was one simple gunshot wound, clear through the back of the head. The woman was still lying face down, her wrists and ankles bound with plastic ties. 

"Third one this month," Lestrade said to John Watson as Sherlock Holmes hovered over the woman's body, carefully cataloguing clues. "Bag still with her, and as far as we can tell, nothing taken."

"This is an execution, not a robbery," Sherlock said. "She was former military, wasn't she?"

"Yes. Royal Air Force. Corporal Denise Fielding. Thirty-two years old."

Sherlock continued to examine the body until the crime scene investigators told him to clear out. Sherlock made a face but followed John out to the hallway outside of the victim's flat. He opened his notebook and made some notes.

"The first victim that began this trifecta was a civilian doctor," Sherlock said. "The second was the chief architect for a firm that had military contacts. And here we have a former RAF officer. She lived by herself, no pets, and could afford this flat without a flatmate." He frowned, pulling something out of his pocket.

"Is that—Sherlock!" John hissed. "Is that her mobile?"

"I'll give it to Lestrade once I'm finished," Sherlock muttered distractedly, looking over the calls received list and making a note of them, and then did the same with the calls made list. "Obviously all three of these people are connected—aha! Kyle F. The doctor, his name was Kyle, wasn't it? Doctor Kyle—"

"Franklin," said Lestrade's voice from behind them, and held out his hand. Sherlock sighed and handed over the phone. "Don't think I won't book you on withholding evidence, Holmes. Don't make me do it."

Sherlock frowned. "Check Franklin's phone for the architect, Joshua Wilford." Lestrade nodded, going to put the mobile into evidence. Sherlock watched his back, and then twirled towards John.

"They won't let me do anything else. Lunch?"

"You'll have it figured out by the time we've ordered, won't you?"

Sherlock just smiled.

+++

"Of course, it must have been a military program that brought them all together," Sherlock said as he watched John handle his chopsticks clumsily before reaching out and forcing his fingers into the right position. "Fielding was in Company 14, which is the secret service, anti-terrorist task force of the RAF."

"Sorry…Company 14, did you say?" John popped another prawn into his mouth, chewing slowly. Sherlock took another sip of his soup. "I had a mate in Company 14…" He frowned. "I don't remember his name."

Sherlock watched John's face. "Think harder."

John sighed. "We all haven't got dual core processors for brains," he muttered. "Oh yeah! Danny Eames. Captain Eames, RAF. He was Company 14 as well. Don't know what happened to him; got an honorary discharge, however." He shrugged. "Maybe he would know?"

"Or maybe he's dead," Sherlock said, stealing a sweet pepper from John's dish. "Whilst at St Bart's, did you do any experimental drug testing?"

John put down his chopsticks at the question, and stole a look around. "I don't think this is the best place for that line of questioning," he said quietly. "Back at the flat."

Sherlock nodded. "You weren't building super soldiers, were you?"

"Not even close," John replied. "And I'm offended you'd think I'd be so unethical."

"Military ethics are different from civilian ethics."

John frowned. "I was a _doctor_ , Sherlock. We are trained not to use our weapons except in matters of self-defence. A doctor's ethics are never different. Our first obligation is to protect and heal." He picked up his chopsticks again, leaning his head down.

Sherlock stirred his Thai coffee lazily, knowing it would be pointless to talk to him until they got back to 221B. 

+++

"It was called Operation Vision," John said as they sat, thigh pressed against thigh, on the sofa. He rubbed his eyebrow with the back of his thumb, gathering his thoughts. "I was to supervise the testing of the medication called Somnacin. It's a sedative."

Sherlock frowned, grabbing his laptop. John stilled his wrist. "I have some of the files on my laptop. Nothing truly went wrong. Eames was one of the subjects. The soldiers were hooked up to a device called a PASIV, or a Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous device, which would dispense the Somnacin."

"Yes, but what does it do?"

"I'm getting there! The PASIV allowed one of the dreamers to…to create dreams. We would create terrains, mazes, buildings, training exercises. It allowed soldiers to use new equipment, to learn about certain areas, and…" John grimaced. "To kill without repercussion." John looked at his hands. "I was there to make sure that the soldiers weren't having an adverse reaction the to the dreaming."

"So, this military technology got out?"

"Yes. It was being concurrently tested by both Company 14 and the US Secret Service Uniformed Division. They were never able to trace the leak, but Eames was discharged along with, I suppose, Fielding. I never observed her test dreams." John tapped his fingers on his knee, and then clenched it into a fist. His fingers were shaking again.

Sherlock stood up, going across the room to pick up his violin. "So you have civilian doctors working with former soldiers to create the Somnacin, and architects to construct the dreams. So these three aren't the only victims. What does the dream share technology serve in the civilian world? Creating false images, stealing secrets." He sat down on the arm of his chair, plucking at the strings idly. "Espionage and—"

"Something called inception," John finished. "It's more than just creating false images. It's planting an idea deep inside one's subconscious, so that when you wake up, you think it's your idea all along."

"That's…that's quite ingenious."

"It never worked in testing," John said. "The subject rejected it each time."

"But if it did work—"

"No. This isn't some thought experiment! People are dying because of this technology. It isn't right." John got up. "I've got to find Eames. Try to, at least."

"He's a highly trained secret service officer," Sherlock pointed out, tucking his violin under his chin and dragging his bow across the strings, frowning and tightening some pegs. He tried again and smiled. "You barely know how to use a computer."

"Eames and I are still in touch," John said smugly. "I know he hasn't been in England in quite some time, but my emails always find him." He retrieved his laptop from his room, and then rejoined Sherlock in the living room.

"I think I'll try Mendelssohn's _Spring Song_ today," Sherlock said when he came back, and John looked up at him and smiled.

"That'll be great, actually," he replied. "I've always liked that one."

+++

"Look at this," Eames said the following morning over an excellent breakfast served in their hotel room. He and Arthur had slept poorly; Arthur neglected to mention that along with snoring he tended to cocoon himself into the covers like a silk worm, leaving Eames to go down to reception at three in the morning to retrieve an extra blanket. "I got another email from an old mate of mine, John Watson. He was in the Medical Corps."

"Is he in the dream share?" Arthur asked as he spread butter onto his toast, biting into it.

"He was in the legitimate community. He was one of the doctors assigned to make sure the tests ran okay." He looked over the email. "He says there's been murders in London, and they're connected to Company 14." He read more of the email quietly, and then groaned. "Ah, hell…Corporal Denise Fielding. She was in my regiment. She was a good woman." He sighed and rubbed his face, tilting back in his chair, frowning. 

"She was discharged with you, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, but only because they were discharging all the officers in our regiment. They could never figure out where the leak came from, but better safe than sorry. And anyway, it was all above-board, no reprimands, no black marks against us. We all discharged with honours, with no loss of pension or anything."

"Who did leak it?"

"Still don't know, even though I have some suspicions," Eames replied, frowning over the rest of the email. "He's worried they may be coming after me next. Says his roommate, a bloke called Sherlock Holmes—"

"His website is amazing," Arthur said. "Google the Science of Deduction." Eames did just that, reading over it quickly. 

They looked at each other, and Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"If you're thinking it's time for a trip back to the Isles, I'm going to hesitantly agree, even though the weather's guaranteed to be bloody atrocious and I'm going to be miserable the whole time."

"Sacrifices, Eames." 

Eames sighed and dipped a toast finger into his soft-boiled egg. "The day I met you was the worst day of my life."

"The day you met me was my first day with my own regiment, and you made it a living hell."

"I do aim to please. You were a lieutenant then, weren't you?"

Arthur sighed. "Yep. The highest rank I ever made." 

Eames typed out a quick response to John and reached over to steal a cherry tomato from Arthur. "You mean to tell me I outrank you? That's utterly shameful. We should protest."

"I guess I just wasn't as good as kissing ass as you were," Arthur said, ducking as a piece of toast came flying in his direction.

+++

Eames studied his passport, frowning. "I've always liked myself in glasses," he said, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "They make me look dignified."

"That shirt certainly doesn't," Arthur replied, checking his watch.

Eames smoothed down his paisley monstrance. "Tetchy, Arthur. Who pissed in your Weetabix this morning?" he asked, looking out of the window. "Ah, I can see Jolly Ol'. I have missed home."

"Eighteen hour flights should be banned," Arthur said, yawning and putting his seat upright as the attendant came by to remind people to shut off their computers and other electronics. He tapped his foot, watching Eames fiddle with his cuffs. "How long has it been for you?"

"Six years," Eames answered automatically. "Went last for my dad's funeral. Before then it had been quite a while." He rubbed his face, looking back at Arthur. "Once an expatriate, always an expatriate."

"Also a criminal who has been on the lam?"

Eames snorted. "Well, Mister Pot, I'm sure I'm pleased to meet you. Mrs Kettle sends her regards."

The plane landed and they were led through customs with no problems. At the baggage claim, two men stood at the carousel: a tall man in a long black coat that seemed to swirl around him, with piercing blue-green eyes set wide in an angular face, and the other man, shorter and altogether more friendly-looking, with a wide smile and a nicely fit black jacket.

"John Watson, you old dog!" Eames called out, and they met each other halfway in what could be called a crushing hug, except Eames was careful—Arthur noticed John was leaning on a cane.

"It's good to see you," John said when they pulled back. "Eames, my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock and Eames shook hands, and Eames grinned at him. "Well, this is my colleague Arthur Browning." Arthur and John shook hands, and then Arthur and Sherlock. 

"So, let's go have a pint. At least the home country does that right," Eames muttered, as they turned and walked out into the dreary English afternoon.

+++

"So do you have a PASIV device?" Sherlock asked as they were driven to the suite that Eames and Arthur would work out of; they had agreed that keeping themselves separate from John and Sherlock would keep down any questions.

"We both do," Arthur replied, looking out of the window. "We don't tend to work together, Eames and I."

"In fact, we haven't worked together in three years," Eames pointed out. "We run in different circles."

"So how big is the dream share community, exactly?" John asked. "I mean, it has to be quite large if you two haven't met up in three years."

"We have different bases of operation," Arthur said. 

"You two have different specialties," Sherlock said, touching his fingers to his mouth. "Although compatible, you two would make a bad team."

"I think we did okay three years ago." Arthur frowned, mirroring Eames by fiddling with his cuffs.

"Well you were brought together for a very specific purpose. Like now, in fact. You two usually do this for money, don't you? You realise you won't get paid much, if at all, for this?"

Eames laughed, and John did as well. "You don't know Eames very well at all," John said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, not as well as I do," John amended.

"You stay based in Africa, don't you, Eames?" Eames barely nodded, but Sherlock continued, "You earned rank there."

Eames nodded again. "Yup, made Captain in Somalia. Asia and Africa are my specialties. An English expatriate almost never raises any alarms."

"Ah, imperialism never dies," John said, looking out of the window.

"And you're the Americas and Europe," Sherlock continued, looking at Arthur, who nodded.

"Sometimes Australia, Russia once or twice." Arthur tilted his head as he looked at Sherlock. "You're trying to figure it all out, aren't you?"

"Who's to say I haven't already?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Arthur muttered, turning his gaze out of the window.

+++

"You two know how to travel!" John said as he settled on the sofa. Arthur and Eames had chosen the Monet Suite at the Savoy, with its sweeping views of Westminster and the Thames, frosted glass bathrooms, tall ceilings and open, breezy rooms.

"We have a patron who enjoys spoiling us," Eames said as he pulled open the curtains to tie them back. "Our services are in high demand."

"And yet, you are both criminals," Sherlock said as he stood at one window. They had shed their coats and jackets, and Sherlock looked quite imperious in his dark aubergine shirt and grey slacks.

"I can't imagine you hold yourself to a strict moral standard," Eames said, sitting down on the arm of a sofa. 

"I've bent plenty of rules," Sherlock agreed, turning towards the rest of the group. "What do we know?"

"So far, there have been eight known victims," began Arthur. "Three in Taiwan, one in Scotland, three here in London and one in Paris. The one in Paris wasn't strictly a member of the dream share community, but he had very close connexions."

"Jeffrey Miles, wasn't it?" Sherlock said. 

"Yes. His son-in-law was the head extractor in the team Eames and I were in three years ago. Miles's murder was more than likely a threat."

"Who of the original team is in danger?"

"Our architect, Ariadne Monaghan, myself and Eames here. Cobb is buried very far underground and Saito has means to protect himself beyond anything we could imagine."

"I'm guessing Saito is your patron, then?" 

"Hear, hear," Eames said, sliding off the arm of the sofa onto the sofa itself, settling in. "The killer is going after the community, but not our team specifically."

"Could it have been someone who has worked with all the victims?" John said from his perch.

Sherlock turned his blue-green eyes onto John. John looked away—he hated that damn stare; it was unsettling. "That's quite a startlingly good observation coming from you," Sherlock said.

"You shouldn't hold your fellows humans in such contempt," Eames said. "John's clever when he must be."

"Glowing praise coming from you, I'm sure," Sherlock said. "How large is the community?"

"Hard to know," Arthur said, picking up the thread once more. "We can't be more than five hundred, though." He tapped his fingers on his knees. "I feel like I want to call Ariadne. This is a bit more serious than we're thinking."

"What for? She's safer in Paris as long as our suspect doesn't think she's still attached to the community. Maybe he doesn't even know about her."

Eames frowned, pulling a poker chip out of his pocket, moving it slowly across the back of his fingers. "Miles wasn't attached to the community either," he said quietly. "We need to keep an eye on her, obliquely at least."

Sherlock sighed. "The more moving parts, the more likely it'll break somewhere we can't fix it."

"As we're aware," Arthur said dryly. "Our teams are small. Cobb and I usually only worked with one or two other people, usually. That particular job was odd. We had a lot of things working against us, but Ariadne is a strong member of any team. She has good ideas."

"So do we want her helping us or are we protecting her?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his arm. "What are we doing here?"

"We aren't sure yet. You're Sherlock Holmes, you tell us what you've deduced!"

Arthur and Sherlock stared at each other, and Arthur pushed off his chair. "I'm not really in the mood to be lectured," Arthur muttered, leaving the room.

Sherlock watched him leave, and then turned back to look at John and Eames. "Is he always like this?"

"He can't stand not to be the smartest person in the room," Eames said with a smirk. "He does like and respect your work, however."

Sherlock nodded. "The person doing this must be working for someone higher up, someone who doesn't want to get their hands dirty. They've hired someone who looks respectable enough, might even have military or government connexions, and can slip into pretty secure or high class areas without being noticed. There's all the markings of a good assassin: no fingerprints, no footprints, and a generic pistol that can be bought in gun shops. It's American, maybe a Smith and Wesson, but that doesn't really narrow it down."

Sherlock rubbed his jaw. "Think we could have some tea?"

Eames got up to prepare some, and Sherlock continued talking. "Male, mid-to-late thirties, right-handed, and quite tall. No real physical ailments and an incredibly steady hand."

Eames sighed. "Well this is getting better and better every second," he said as he dropped the tea ball into the pot. "He could be former military or someone who wanted to be."

Arthur, having calmed down considerably, came back into the room. "How about Nash?"

Eames looked up, snorting. "You mean that weasel of an architect you and Cobb worked with?"

"He doesn't fit the description, but he's the connexion to the dream share. He didn't just work with us, you know. He was even more of an opportunist than we are." 

Eames brought over the tea. "Nash is an American architect—"

"Completely civilian, greedy and yeah, a bit of a weasel. But he did really good work when he was on a job, and he could build some really convincing dreams. He's popular throughout the community." Arthur shrugged. "He could be supplying the killer with information."

"He couldn't be the killer?" John asked as he leaned forward to set up his tea. 

"He's not a killer. He doesn't like to put himself in a lot of danger." Arthur looked at Sherlock once more. "But he's likely to help out someone if its in his best interests, or if someone's got something on him."

"Blackmail is a very tempting motive to commit crime," Sherlock said, stirring his tea. "Can you put us in touch with this Nash?"

Arthur shook his head. "I can't. He knows me and he'd get suspicious immediately."

"Neither can I," Eames said. "I have a very… _peculiar_ skill set and I'm quite well-known to the community."

"There is Ariadne," Arthur said. "I know you don't want to bring her in, but she's practically unknown and knows enough about dream share to be convincing."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, it's not ideal but we haven't really got another option, have we?"

"Not really," Arthur said, getting up and retrieving his laptop from his room. "Tell me, Sherlock…have you ever had a really good dream?"

+++

It was Eames who met Ariadne at Saint Pancras International Station with flowers and an unusually silly grin on his face. Ariadne took the flowers and accepted a kiss in good grace, linking her arm easily with his as they walked to the cab stand.

"Paris has done lovely things to you," Eames said as he helped her and her single bag into the cab and told the driver the address.

The cab ride was mostly in silence; traffic was acceptable by London standards, which meant that their fifteen minute cab ride would only be twenty or twenty-five.

"Are you from London?" Ariadne asked Eames, tilting her head back as London went by.

"South London," Eames replied. "I say I hate it all the time, but you know, one never really hates home..." He turned his head to look out his window, and Ariadne looked down at the bouquet in her lap, running her fingers along a tulip petal.

+++

Ariadne looked down at the sketches once more. "So if we're looking for someone who works in the dream share, who's an architect even, how are we going to fool him into believing he's not in a dream?"

"It's not him we need to fool," Eames replied. "It's whoever he's working for. We just need to find out who it is, and we don't give a tick if Nash knows he's dreaming or not."

"What if the man he's working with is with him?" John asked, watching Ariadne make corrections on her sketches. He had been deeply impressed at her professionalism, her ability to read a situation; even Sherlock wasn't so very disdainful with her. 

Arthur shook his head, and he and Sherlock said, "He won't be," at the same time.

"Nash is the messenger. They can't afford to be seen together." 

Sherlock looked at Arthur and raised an eyebrow, but added nothing else.

Ariadne hummed. "So we have two levels, my dream and…John's, right?" She smiled at John. "Have you ever been under?"

John nodded. "Part of my medical training," he replied.

"Why can't Sherlock be the other dreamer?" Eames said, looking over the notes. "No offense, John."

"None taken, I'm sure," John replied softly. "Sherlock's brain…hmm…" He looked helplessly at Sherlock.

"I'm a former drug user," Sherlock said, shrugging easily. "My brain probably couldn't handle the construction." He said it without shame, although he looked at the PASIV device with some longing. "I will have to learn to support the construction later on, I'm sure, but not during a fairly serious part of this operation."

Arthur leaned over Ariadne as she made notes on her sketches. Ariadne looked up and smiled at Arthur, poking him with her Sakura pen before writing down more notes.

"How long do we have to set up the dream?" Eames asked, rummaging through some papers in front of him. He pulled out a printout. "I'm not even sure the intelligence we have on Nash is right."

"Best guess is that Nash is in Venice, but that information is about three weeks old," Arthur said. He looked at John and Sherlock. "We move fast in the dream-share world, and unfortunately, everyone involved is really good at covering their tracks."

Sherlock nodded, putting his fingers to his lips. After a few moments he got up and left the room. Arthur raised his eyebrows at John.

"Were we offensive?"

John laughed. "No...he...needs to go into his Mind Palace...It's a thing." He shrugged. "He's got a lot of information in his head and sometimes he needs to sort it all out. I mean, this case has international implications and it's dealing with a subject matter that there's not going to be a lot of information on by virtue of what it actually is, so..."

"Look, mate, we know the score," Eames said, putting the papers into piles. "We're grateful for the help." He scratched his jaw. "I'm bloody knackered though. Wake me if something exciting happens." He got up and left the room, headed for the bedroom.

+++

Ariadne sat at the desk in front of the window, putting the last touches on her scale model of John's dream. It was four in the morning, but she had had trouble sleeping and could not stay down for very long, anyway, especially when she was on a 'case' again after three years. She was actually smiling; she had enjoyed the last time she was in a dream, even though everything had shattered very quickly. She looked over her sketches, and then to the model, smiling again. Arthur had put in a set of Penrose Steps for her, of course he had. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin when someone touched her shoulder, and she swirled around. Sherlock was standing above her, looking down at her. His eyes were almost glowing, cat-like and intense. "You're up late," he said.

"Oh, I can never sleep when I'm working on a dream," she said, and then got up. "How'd you get in?"

Sherlock produced a key-card. "I'm sure Eames will miss it," he said. He slid it back in his coat pocket. "Tell me, Ariadne...can you work a PASIV?"

Ariadne nodded. "I can. Do you want a demonstration?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "There's a lot of things in my subconscious I'm not sure I'd want letting out," he said.

Ariadne nodded. "Trust me, I know all about those demons in the closet."

"Surely you haven't got any?"

Ariadne shrugged. "Everybody has something they want hidden away," she said quietly. 

Sherlock watched her face. "The last job, the one you worked with Eames and Arthur...you didn't like it very much, did you?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest," Ariadne said, and went to grab the kettle. "Tea or coffee?"

"Neither. What was it?" Sherlock watched her as she prepared her instant coffee; her shoulders were straight and her hair covered her face

"Do you know what inception is?" Ariadne asked.

"John told me about it."

"It seems...or it seemed...invasive. We had no real stake in it. Well, I didn't. It was purely an experiment for me. But for Cobb, it was a way back home. It seemed a really cruel thing to do to a desperate man." Ariadne mixed her coffee slowly, staring out at the early-morning view of London. "And for what? So one guy could beat another in business? I'm not even sure the world is a better place for what we've done. I don't see any point."

Sherlock stared at her back. "But you did it anyway."

Ariadne shrugged. "We all do a lot of things that maybe we shouldn't." She looked at Sherlock. "I saw your websites. You spend a lot of time cataloguing the whole human experience, don't you?"

Sherlock put his fingers to his lips. "I...that seems like an over-simplification of matters but yes. If I have it all, I can more easily deduce a crime." He gazed at her for a long moment. "You have a cat, don't you?"

"I do, but I can't ever get cat hair out of anything I wear, so that must not have been that difficult to figure out." Ariadne settled on the sofa across from him, wrapping her hands around her mug. She sipped at her mug. "I don't need a demonstration of your undoubtedly amazing skills." 

Sherlock nodded, and then got up to look at the models. "What are you hoping to achieve here?"

"Well, this is different, isn't it? People are dying and it all has to do with the dreams." She shifted to watch him, a pale sliver of skin peeking above his coat's collar as he bent to look. 

"Would you call detective work worthwhile, then?"

"I'm not sure where this line of questioning is going," Ariadne said, sipping her coffee.

"Questioning rarely goes anywhere. It's all about the answers." Sherlock turned to her, and bowed slightly. "Thank you. I'll see you later today, then?"

Ariadne frowned at the abrupt dismissal, but nodded. Sherlock placed the key-card next to the model and slipped out.

+++

Arthur had a world map pinned up on the wall, and was marking locations with a fine point pen. He consulted a bit of paper in his hand and then the map, marking something else. Sherlock sat nearby and watched as Arthur marked the locations on the map.

"Are we looking for a pattern?" Eames asked, perched once more on the arm of one of the sumptuous sofas. 

"Should we be looking for satanic markers?" John cracked from the desk where Ariadne's models sat. Ariadne snorted from her perch at the window. Sherlock turned to look over the tableau.

"We're looking for something," Arthur said, and then looked at Sherlock, who was still looking at Eames. "See anything yet?"

Sherlock looked back at the map, and then stood up. Nash's locations bounced all over the globe, from London and Sheffield in England, up to Glasgow, then over to Madrid, Paris and Venice. There were locations in Asia, including Shanghai, Tokyo and Phuket. Mombasa, Jinja and Tripoli made up the African contingent, and Rio de Janeiro and Bogotá were marked in South America. Each city was marked with a series of dates.

"He's acting like a courier," Sherlock said, leaning back in his own chair. "Also, all these locations are corporate locations for Cobol."

"The energy conglomerate?" John asked, and Eames nodded.

"So Nash is still working for Cobol. Who else could be working for Cobol?"

"How about Moriarty?" 

Sherlock's head snapped up, and his jaw clenched. He narrowed his eyes, who watched him warily.

"Well, anything's possible," Sherlock said, and then got got closer to the map, frowning in thought. "If Moriarty has anything to do with Cobol, it means that he's got control of the PASIV and probably has a significant portion of the dream community on his side."

"Who's Moriarty?" Eames asked around his croissant. Arthur wrinkled his nose in disgust, and Eames winked at him, closing his mouth as he chewed.

"Moriarty is a very clever man. If Nash is working for him we may have a very long wait for him to resurface."

Arthur's phone buzzed away on the table, and Eames scooped it up, tossing it to Arthur. Arthur managed to catch it without looking, answering it. "Hello again. You have any news for me?" Arthur smiled, circling a spot somewhere to the south of France. "And a name? Thanks." He clicked off.

"Nash is most definitely in Monaco," he said. "He's officially still on Cobol's payroll, along with a man named Moran."

Eames flinched at the name. "Oh hell," he muttered. "Oh bloody hell." Everyone looked at him. "He was in Company 14 too. Got discharged and nearly court-martialed for selling secrets."

John frowned in thought. "You mean the tall bugger, dark hair? Sebastian Moran?" Eames nodded. "If he's working for Moriarty, we'd be in a spot of trouble."

Sherlock scratched his nose. "If we're all quite done..."

"Aw, you didn't figure it out? Poor little Sherlock," Arthur teased, and Sherlock straightened his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at Arthur.

"So much for needing to set up a dream-scape," Adriane said. "Does this mean I can go back to Paris?"

Sherlock's mouth curled into a smile. "Not at all. Tell me, are you any good at Blackjack?"

Ariadne tilted her head. "How did you know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's my business to know."

+++

Asking Mycroft Holmes for a favour was not a feat easily done. There were negotiations, contracts, a series of quid-pro-quo and an annoying feeling that even after all that diplomatic tug-of-war, one was still left holding the wrong end of the rope.

There were introductions to be had, travel arrangements to be made, documents to be drawn up. Mycroft needed to feel at the centre of it all, and so changed the location of meetings to the Royal Suite at Claridge's. Not that anyone complained about the change of location, except of course Sherlock. 

Mycroft was needed, and he knew he was needed, so he meted out favours in small batches. First, new identities for everyone except for Sherlock and John, who were so well-known throughout the country (and one could say the world) that it would be impossible to change them. The passports arrived by special courier, and each was filled with valid-looking visas and looked beat-up and aged, so as not to arouse too much suspicion.

Ariadne was especially taken by hers, a Canadian woman named Emily Banks from Vancouver. She set up a very convincing back-story, even going so far as to typing it up for Mycroft's approval. Emily was a twenty-something graduate student in France--Ariadne was careful to put in enough of her own details so it wouldn't sound like she was lying.

"We're glad to have you on our side," Eames said as they dug into the dinner Mycroft had specially called up for them the night they received their new passports. Arthur and he were old hat at new identities, barely giving their new names a glance. They knew names and cover stories, and Mycroft was satisfied enough.

Next was drawing up court papers for extradition, which meant finding a sympathetic judge. If there were a frisson of doing something underhanded, Sherlock reminded them that they were chasing bonafide criminals, and that they were on the side of justice. The words seemed hollow and unconvincing, but the group clung to them.

Mycroft recruited Lestrade to accompany them, as the only actual arm of the law in the group. Lestrade also could not use a new identity.

"I can't break the law whilst travelling to uphold this flimsy excuse for a warrant," he said on one of his rare nights at the Suite. "Every time I come here, I feel like I'm being bribed."

"But you're coming with us anyway," Sherlock pointed out.

"And miss a chance to go to Monaco? You're having me on."

Finally, flights were booked and hotels were confirmed and it was nearly time to head to the tiny municipality. The intervening time was spent honing everyone's Blackjack skills. Ariadne and Sherlock were far and away the best players, but Lestrade was dependable and able to count cards and hold a conversation, something Sherlock failed to do (not that Sherlock held many extraneous conversations, anyway).

+++

Ariadne had the great pleasure of sitting next to Lestrade, who reminded her vaguely of her father but was a million times better looking. Lestrade talked about his children and growing up in the Midlands of England, and Ariadne talked about growing up in Rhode Island before moving to New York and then Paris. Lestrade was the best listener she had ever spoken to, asking questions and appreciating the answers. 

John was not _scared_ of flying, per se, but he had a healthy respect for the mode of transportation and never disregarded a single instruction from the flight attendants. Having never flown with Sherlock, watching the other man settle into his seat and open some book on beekeeping made John feel slightly more relieved.

Eames tapped his poker chip on his armrest, his foot jiggling. Arthur had never seen him look anxious before a flight. He leaned over and nudged Eames's arm. Eames looked up, eyes wide. 

"Scared of a little flight to France?"

Eames shook his head. "It's this Moran character. He was...he was sort of rough and ready. Sort of a hard man, GI Joe wannabe. Short temper, liked a drink." He shrugged. "He never did get on with the rest of the company. He's bound to feel bitter about the discharge. And I wouldn't put it past him to be the one this bloke Moriarty hired."

"Do you think we should have some other protections?"

Eames shrugged. "It'd be better not to bring any more attention to ourselves. Mycroft may be able to pull a lot of strings, but there's no telling how far his mastery extends." He leaned back, barely listening to the safety instructions.

+++

L'Hotel d'Hermitage was the largest five-star establishment in Monte Carlo. One entire wing, it seemed, had been taken over by the group, with adjoining rooms. Each room was done up in a different style, from Ariadne's Baroque double room to Lestrade's Art Deco junior suite. Eames kept popping through the adjoining doors and marvelling at the decorations.

He went back to his room and nearly shouted: Sherlock was stretched out on Eames's chaise longue, gazing out towards the balcony and Eames's view of the city of Monte Carlo (Arthur had gotten a view of the harbour, which Eames thought was unfair).

"Did you bring your PASIV?" Sherlock asked.

"I did," Eames replied.

"Would you demonstrate it?" Sherlock sat up.

Eames frowned in thought. "Perhaps," he said, drawing out the word. "Why do you want to try it?"

"Call it intellectual curiosity," Sherlock said. Eames snorted.

"Right," he murmured. "Well, It's not going to hurt us much to go inside our heads a bit. Let me go wash my hands."

+++

Eames opened the suitcase that held his PASIV. His was an older model, actually purloined from the SAS once he learned that he would be discharged. It had all the same parts; it was just made with different metals and more medical grade plastics than Arthur's fancier one. It matched their spirits: Eames was still a utilitarian, whilst Arthur had moved on to a more James Bond approach. 

Eames carefully wiped the inside of Sherlock's wrist, looking up at him. "There are two small needles that pierce your wrist, here and here." He pointed without touching the skin. "We'll get you comfortable, I release your portion of the sedative, and then I do the same with myself."

"And I'm the...suspect?" Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. "No, wait. Subject?"

"Exactly. It'll be my dream we're going into."

"Do you do this often?" Sherlock asked as he watched Eames pierce his wrist with the needles, and then his own.

"Mmm, often enough," Eames replied. "Listen carefully. The dream is as stable as the dreamer. I've done this before. Everything is going to seem real. Don't think too much about the fact that it isn't, or else it'll all go to pot."

"Is this something you say to all your subjects?"

Eames looked at him. "Only the former drug addicts."

Eames put them under before Sherlock could reply. 

It wasn't Eames's most inspired dream. They found themselves on Hampstead Heath, sitting on a bench, watching projections fly kites, walk dogs, and generally enjoy the rare bit of London sunshine. Sherlock looked around, up and down. Eames watched him take down every detail, touching the bench he was sat on, looking up at the sky as if confirming to himself that he could possibly tell it wasn't real.

"This feels real," he said.

"It's supposed to," Eames said, crossing his legs, and Sherlock got up, walking around. He turned and looked at Eames, lounging easily against the bench.

"Why Hampstead Heath?"

"Familiarity keeps people from panicking, I find," Eames replied, watching some of his projections flying a kite. 

Sherlock turned to look at the London skyline, and Eames got up to stand behind him. When Sherlock turned around again, he stepped back. Instead of Eames, he was looking at a perfect copy of himself, standing in Eames's lazy slouch. "Impressive, but I don't slouch."

Eames stood up straighter. "Forgive me," he replied. "It's merely a copy."

"Oh it's a very good one, I assure you." Sherlock smirked. "Can you do others?"

Eames grimaced and was back in his own skin, before switching to a woman with wavy brown hair and a low-cut red dress. 

"Is it a mere imitation, or is it the complete package?"

"It's more than an imitation," Eames said, and his voice was soft, lilting. "I become people."

Sherlock walked around Eames, and reached out, stopping himself before touching Eames's hair. "Is this something you trained to do in Company 14?"

"Oh, of course," Eames replied, switching back to himself. He rubbed his jaw. "But I'm very, very good." He pointed. "Let's go down, mingle with the projections."

They made their way down the Heath, Sherlock taking every little detail in. "You must have come to the Heath often in your youth. But you're missing something."

Eames blinked. "What? Are the flowers out of season?" He smirked.

"No...I hadn't noticed. The skyline is too close." 

Eames looked out to where Sherlock was gazing. "Huh. Well isn't that too bad. My scale is a bit off, thank you for the observation."

"You wear sarcasm very well."

"Yes. It may surprise you that it isn't the first time I've heard that."

+++

"Why is it that men wear black or white tuxedos for everything, and I have to peacock around in a different dress every time I want to go to some sort of soiree?" Ariadne swirled in a dark green cocktail dress, her hair piled on her head with a sparkling clip. She garnered attention, but not so much that she would dwarf all the other women in the room; enough to make a man notice, but not be unforgettable. 

"Possibly because women, for heterosexual males, are the goal," Sherlock replied, looking almost criminally comfortable in his togs. John, however, was not so comfortable in his tuxedo, but at least he looked handsome.

Eames looked a little bow-legged and slouched, but he was able to pull off a rather dashing devil-may-care look; Arthur, of course, looked like he had been born in a tuxedo.

But it was Lestrade, Ariadne's official 'date' for the evening, who stole the prize for 'Most Surprisingly Sexy' of the evening. His tuxedo was accented by a daring dark red waistcoat instead of a cummerbund, and his cuff-links matched Ariadne's hair-clip. His hair was swept back, and he was clean-shaven; even with the salt-and-pepper hair, he did not look like a lecherous man with a much younger date. 

Ariadne smiled, accepting Lestrade's arm. "Oh, man. I have never had a date this hot ever," she said, and Lestrade managed to blush. Arthur looked a little offended, and Ariadne winked at him. "Remember, it was only in your dreams."

+++

Mycroft's magic seemed to work in Monaco as well. Ariadne and Lestrade were ushered to a private room overlooking the main casino floor. John and Sherlock were happy to prowl the floor. 

Ariadne was fine not having her whole entourage with her. Her giant cocktail ring on her left second finger held a secret: it was an microphone sending an audio transmission to a small, almost imperceptible earpiece in Arthur's ear.

Sitting around the table was a man in a very nice grey suit, Lestrade, Ariadne, another woman, tall and tan and looking every bit the 'idle rich' with all her jewel-encrusted bangles, and a man next to her. Lestrade put his hand over Ariadne's squeezing it. Ariadne nodded. The man was tall, as well, and slim. His eyes and hair were dark, and he fiddled with a betting chip much like Eames did, flipping it over the back of his fingers and tapping it against the table.

The game itself was boring, punctuated by well-rehearsed small-talk from Ariadne and Lestrade, certain words codes for Arthur and Eames. The man at the end of the table got drunker and drunker, which enabled everyone else at the table to win more and more. The dealer took a break to switch, and Ariadne leaned close to Lestrade. "Can we keep our winnings?"

Lestrade chuckled. "Of course, luv," he muttered in return. "Won't even have to claim them on our taxes."  
"The way we're winning, I just paid rent for a few months and some nights out. You're really good."

"Ah, you're much better. Our boy at the end though."

"What's it called in England? Drunk and disorderly?"

Lestrade snorted and nodded, ordering two glasses of champagne. They had been taking careful sips of mineral water, refusing the free alcohol to keep their heads about them. But even Ariadne drank a bit of the champagne when it came back.

+++

Ariadne and Lestrade walked away with their winnings, practically glowing. Arthur and Eames met with them on the floor. "What do you know?"

"That Moran ran through a good twenty thousand Euro. He might have won five thousand back. He's really shite." 

Ariadne shrugged. "He lost his temper a few times with the woman next to him when she took too long to decide. I feel like she might have been trying to count cards and lost her count somewhere." She looked over Lestrade's shoulder. "Have you guys seen Sherlock and John?"

Eames snorted. "Probably gone off to have a snog or a fag. Or both. But no, haven't seen them."

And then the lights went out.

+++

A few shouts of confusion rang out in the casino before the generator kicked on. Softer, secondary lights glowed, and Moran stood at the top of the stairs.

"Forgive me," he called out, his voice clear and hard. "I did not mean to distress any of you tonight. Le chef, Monsieur M, sends his regards and regrets that he could not be here this evening."

Security surged up around him, and with four pops, they slid down the stairs. Ariadne flinched with each shot, burying her face in Lestrade's shoulder. Lestrade wrapped his arm around Ariadne's shoulder.

"Right then. Let's not be too hasty, all right?" 

The whispers got more urgent as people translated what Moran was saying, or offering words of comfort and prayer. Eames slid closer to the ground, creeping forward on his elbows. Arthur undid his bowtie and took off his jacket. Lestrade did the same, sliding his jacket around Ariadne's shoulders. 

"You stay here with Ariadne," Arthur said, watching as Eames belly-crawled, shedding his jacket, bowtie and rolling up his sleeves. Arthur followed him on his belly, and Ariadne watched them.

"What, exactly, are they going to do against a guy with a gun?" she asked.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Grab him about the ankles, I suppose. Maybe he'll be too surprised to shoot."

Ariadne had to swallow a laugh; it stuck painfully in her throat.

+++

Sherlock stood near a cluster of craps tables, staring with unseeing eyes at the stairs, at Moran and his pronouncements. He did not want money, or jewelry or even to set up a ransom. Moran and everyone in the casino would die, a great conflagration of the rich and sometimes powerful.

"This is Moriarty's madness," he said to John, who was standing at his left. John's hands were in fists, but Sherlock could see his shoulders shaking.

"We knew he would show up again," John said after a long silence of listening to the whimpers and cries of the people around them. "We knew he would show up again and cause some sort of mayhem..."

He frowned, looking at the ground. Most people had found seats or had folded, terrified, against columns and walls, but he saw two moving figures creeping across the floor. 

"Is that...?"

"Arthur and Eames? Of course. They're both military men."

"So am I!"

"You have a gunshot in your leg and a broken shoulder than never fully healed. Leave the battle to the young. They'll probably fail."

"We're not going to let them die just because they're young and stupid."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sure they won't die. Failing and dying could be mutually exclusive. But I have a better idea. Come with me. Quietly. I think he has backups."

"This is really not the time to be unsure," John hissed, but followed Sherlock quickly.   
+++

"So what precisely are you planning?" Arthur murmured to Eames when they settled at a column.

"Moran liked bombs. Big shows." Eames rubbed his face. "So there are probably pounds and pounds of C4 all over the place. I haven't got Sherlock's brains, so I'm not sure where they might be, but I have some ideas." He stuck his hand in his pocket, flipping his chip. 

"Well I'm fucking terrified," Arthur said, and Eames laughed.

"You'd be stupid not to be. But dying here wouldn't be such a terrible way to go. We're surrounded by beauty and wealth. I mean, it's all fake and horrible and classist, but..." He shrugged.

"Look at you, politically motivated in our final moments," Arthur said. "Good time for it." 

Eames laughed, rubbing the bridge of this nose.

"Staring death down does tend to bring out the best in all of us."

Arthur eyed Moran, lit by the soft lights of the stairs. "Or the very, very worst."

+++

Sherlock leaned against a wall. He had a perfect view of Moran, who stood, staring the people down, the dead bodies of security guards littering the staircase. He held a gun in his hand, loose and easy. 

"Do you think Moriarty knew we would be here tonight?" John asked, watching Sherlock watch Moran.

"No doubt," Sherlock said. "There's only one other person in this deal that knew we were here."

John licked his lips. "You're not saying--he's your brother!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sometimes we all have to do very desperate things." He stepped forward, shouting, "Moran!"

+++

Moran tightened his hand on his gun. "Oi there! Come forward, then, you brave soul."

Sherlock stepped forward, and Moran laughed when the lights revealed him. "Sherlock bloody Holmes. Well, ain't this just my lucky day."  
Sherlock shrugged, keeping his hands out of his pockets. "Yes, it is your lucky day. Tell me, did you know I would be here?"

"Oh, well, why don't you tell me what you've _deduced_?" Moran's voice changed from the imitation of a hardboy from East London to Etonian, and his shoulders straightened. "You can't leave, as I'm sure you've noticed, and I know you haven't got a gun."

Sherlock put his hands behind him, no longer worried that Moran would think he was reaching for a weapon. "No, you're completely right. I haven't got a gun, and I cannot leave."

"Made all your excuses, said all your prayers then?"

"Of course I have. Have you?"

+++

"Do you trust me?" Lestrade asked Ariadne, who was watching the exchange between Sherlock and Moran.

Ariadne nodded. "As much as I trust any cop," she replied.

"It's a good thing you're still able to kid about," Lestrade said, and then squeezed her shoulders. "Everything will be all right." 

+++

Lestrade was not a young man any longer. Pressing up against 50, he had been in the force for nearly twenty years, and had done many, many stupid things in his life. What he was about to do would top the stupid list for the rest of his life. 

The service stairs were dank and cold, but Lestrade was still sweating through his crisp evening shirt. He undid his bowtie, dropping it on the stairs, opening the top buttons of his collar and rolling his sleeves.

He did not expect to survive, but when he burst through the door and went barrelling for Moran, he hoped for the best.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Tracklist:  
> Let It Be ~ Beatles  
> Losing My Religion ~ REM  
> We Looked Like Giants ~ Death Cab for Cutie  
> Through the Trees ~ Low Shoulder  
> Ghosts ~ Francesqa  
> Heartbeat ~ JJAMZ  
> Cold Desert ~ Kings of Leon  
> Running Up That Hill ~ Kate Bush  
> Satellite Mind ~ Metric  
> SOS ~ the Last Shadow Puppets  
> Meds ~ Placebo  
> Dilaudid ~ the Mountain Goats  
> The Ice Is Getting Thinner ~ Death Cab for Cutie  
> Eet ~ Regina Spektor  
> No Need To Argue ~ the Cranberries
> 
> link to mix: http://www.mediafire.com/?61bu2v6sqscb5qt


End file.
